You carefully place the offerings in the pentagram drawn on the floor: a can of original flavor Rockstar, cannabis, a copy of Era Vulgaris by Queens of the Stone Age, a black hoodie, and the blood of a cop. You know the incantation, but even the thought of uttering something so abominable makes you feel ill. The words feel like sand on your tongue, but you speak. "'They can't be a singular pronoun," you manage weakly. The weed bursts into flame. The can opens and is half-drained in a flash. 3's and 7's begins playing from nowhere. The hoodie suddenly flies across the room and you duck to avoid it. My voice comes from behind you, "The fuck did you say?"